The house: The house

“I don’t want to go in there” that’s the thought that keeps screaming in my head. every fibre of my being rejects it. It was a freezing winter night as I parked the car in the drive way I could hear the crows that were roosting on the old oak tree in the centre of the garden. The garden was over grown weeds covered the lawn that looked as if it hadn’t been cut in 10 years. A lone rusted bench stood under the tree tangle in weeds. I looked over o the house, it was old and was crumbling away the window frames were rotten and a window on the second floor was broken.
    My wife held my hand and I turned and looked into her eyes. I wanted to tell her we were going home and that I didn’t want to be here. But it would just start a fight so I sighed and got out of he car. We walked up the path together up the path and up to the rotten door in the centre of it was a old bronze door knocker in the shape of bird  I steadied myself and knocked on the door some of the flaky green paint came off onto my hands.  And then we waited. Eventually I heard it the sound the floor broads inside creaking and the foot steps I heard them walk up to the door and then  the click of the lock .
    The door slowly opened with a long whining creak and then it stood their. My stepmother .  I wanted to scream.